


Hidden in the Shadows

by GettingOverGreta



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23834632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GettingOverGreta/pseuds/GettingOverGreta
Summary: An AU from the start: Daenerys persuaded Jorah to help her escape before she could be forced to marry, and they settle in Asshai. She does not understand how, but like a creeping vine, a sort of hunger has worked its way through the walls she has built up between herself and other people, and it scrolls out Jorah's name in its tendrils.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	Hidden in the Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> In this AU, Daenerys managed to flee from Pentos before Viserys could marry her off to anyone. And who better to help her do that than her most devoted knight? Not underage, because I say so. (I estimate she left a year after she would have been married to Drogo, and has been with Jorah for around a year.)

Despite being a busy port city during the day, the streets of Asshai are unusually dark and empty at night, mostly lacking the moon's glow and with few hearth lights shining. One fire glows within a little house with a red door, where a missing princess studies her reflection in silvered glass. Daenerys is a small thing, wrapped in a gown of cobalt silk, and she doesn’t know why she is carefully examining her appearance when the man who awaits her in the largest of the house’s rooms likely would not care if she wore a garment made of flour sacks.

Ser Jorah Mormont may have fallen from grace, but she inspired his dormant chivalry enough to persuade him to help her escape Pentos and her brother’s clutches. She had already avoided the alarming prospect of her Dothraki marriage through sheer luck, a war breaking out in the Great Grass Sea that distracted the Khal who would have taken her for a bride. Then Illyrio Mopatis had fallen ill, and she had done much to manage his household in his absence, secretly hoping that perhaps he would decide she was indispensable.

He did not. When Viserys and the magister found a new path to Westeros (a marriage to an Astapori Master, who would give her brother an army of Unsullied), she knew she had to act quickly. The knight had visited them at Illyrio’s manse and had already promised his sword to Viserys when he took back the Seven Kingdoms. When their plans were delayed, he had continued to visit, and had been kind to her, even giving her books with Westerosi stories for “safe-keeping.” They were one of the few belongings she took when they slipped away in the night, stepping over the bodies of Illyrio’s guards.

She cannot expect him to protect her like a father. Daenerys knew this when she implored him to help her, making her plea after she had bidden him to read her a romantic Westerosi poem while they had been quite inappropriately left alone. She held his rough hand between her two small ones, and kissed his weathered cheek when he promised to find a way to steal her. She knew what she had offered that evening and was tempted to be more persuasive, but she did not want him to think her immodest.

No more than necessary, at least.

They have been hiding in this corner of Asshai for nearly two months, and while she had wondered at Jorah choosing this place to land, for magic seems to make him uneasy, Asshai is also a city where no one asks questions. The people they encounter are usually more concerned with coin than creed, and no one cares if she is Jorah's daughter, his wife, or his Lyseni bed slave. As eerie as the city is, they seem to be safe here, with Daenerys’s silver hair hidden beneath veils, while Jorah wears a mask and black armor to guard a merchant’s stores. A red priestess has taken a liking to her, and Daenerys visits her temple a few days a week (she’s also sold the priestess little vials of her maiden blood for extra coin, but Jorah doesn’t need to know that). She and Jorah dine together, he tells her about Westeros and the other places he has seen in Essos, she makes him practice his rusty Valyrian. She feels free to laugh with him, to ask any question, and to accept his admiring gaze without feeling like she has to flee. His hands touch her respectfully, always treating her like she is something precious. There is little color among the city's black walls and it is important that they be discreet, but Jorah has painted the inside of their front door red to remind her of the only true home she can remember, and his gesture brings her a sense of warmth every time she sees it, despite the ominous gloom and the green, glittering water surrounding the city.

Daenerys is comfortable enough here, but nothing in her life has ever been permanent, and perhaps that is what has stirred her into questioning the chastity of this arrangement. She does not understand how, but like a creeping vine, a sort of hunger has worked its way through the walls she has built up between herself and other people, and it scrolls out Jorah's name in its tendrils. Her promise of a warm bed was admittedly something of a ploy (she learned long ago how to ignore unpleasant things happening to her body), but now she knows Jorah better than she has ever been allowed to know anyone, and the more she thinks about it, the more it intrigues her. They sleep side by side, as they often did as they crossed Essos - one bed is cheaper than two, and knowing what led to his disgrace, she guards their coin ferociously. Some nights she has sought his arms, when she feels a chill, or when her dreams and the shadows outside are too haunting, yet she has hesitated to seek anything else, and he has not tried to take anything as she initially assumed he would. Daenerys has never _wanted_ someone before, yet she stares into the crackling hearth and daydreams about how it would feel if he held her just a little closer, or how he would taste if she let her tongue tangle with his, and it makes her feel flushed with warmth, makes something twist and curl low in her belly. 

Those, of course, are just the _day_ dreams. Those that haunt her nights leave her perplexed; Jorah is both himself and not, Daenerys is herself and not. Sometimes she feels like she is burning, sometimes they are in a cold, vast hall, and the fur of his cloak comes to life and curls around their entwined bodies. Usually he is tender and sweet, sometimes she wants his tightly coiled strength to overpower her. She always wakes unfulfilled, with a deep sense of longing, and sometimes wonders if some stray magic has found its way through their walls.

Tonight she has had enough of mysterious shadows and unexpected yearnings for a man who sleeps within arm's length. She smooths her gown and hair once more, and swallows down her nerves. Jorah looks on her with fondness, and he will not deny her anything, so this could not be simpler.

She has chosen this evening because the red priestess has promised her that this night is auspicious for transitions, and she finds Jorah by the fire, relaxed and waiting for her to tease him about his dreadful Valyrian vowels. Daenerys has already decided against subtlety or any embarrassing attempts at coquetry, and simply settles herself on his lap. She is not sure where his mind was, but it seems to take him a moment to recognize her seat against his thighs, her hand against his scratchy cheek. His hand floats to her back before he even speaks, and she presses a gentle kiss to his bottom lip. He tenses, confused, and for a brief, awful moment, she wonders if she has misunderstood, and he does not desire her. She tries again, her kiss more urgent, waiting for him to return her affection. His lips warm and respond to her entreaty, and she smiles in triumph when the hand he doesn’t have at her back lands on her thigh.

“Daenerys,” he whispers, and it sends a thrill up her spine. He has used a false name for her in public since they fled Pentos and hearing the true one always feels like a treat. She opens to his tongue and the sweetness of his mouth. Her hand tangles into his hair, and he pulls away to kiss her pulse point, his beard scratching against the delicate skin of her throat. Heat prickles along her spine as she feels his chest rise faster, quickened breath matching her own. She brings his hand to the curve of her waist and hip, lets him feel that she wears no corset or smallclothes, only the thin silk of her gown. She grins against his mouth when she can see the moment he figures it out, then slips from his grasp, placing the sash holding the garment closed into his hand. She steps back, making the tie slip, and he watches as the silk tumbles to the floor. Jorah’s eyes rake over her; if she has been hungry for his affection, he looks positively starved.

“You are exquisite,” he says, his low rich voice moving over her skin like licks of fire, coaxing her closer. Abandoning the gown on the floor, she steps between his legs, and brings his hands to her hips. She will not let him think too much about what they are doing, lest he should think he needs to be sensible. Jorah’s hands glide over her curves and he presses a kiss to her breastbone. Her breasts unexpectedly ache for his warm hands, but he only nuzzles the skin beneath, before tracing her ribs back to the center of her chest with his tongue. The sensation sends goosebumps over her skin, and she can feel her nipples tighten, but Jorah seems determined to ignore this, to her quickly spiraling impatience. Why will he not put his mouth on them, knead her breasts in his strong grip? She almost wants to command him to do so, to see how far his obedience will go.

“Come to bed, Jorah,” she tells him instead, and gasps as he scoops her up in his arms, carrying her like a bride to her chamber. He gently lays her down, his eyes studying her beauty again by the soft light of the bronze oil lamps in the room. She feels her cheeks grow hotter and crosses her arms over her chest, noticing that he is still completely dressed.

“Take off your clothes,” she says, though it sounds more like a question then a command. Jorah raises an eyebrow and she finds herself smiling.

“Now that is a lovely sight,” Jorah says warmly. “You’ve been very serious lately.” He peels away the scarf at his neck, unlaces his doublet. Still overdressed for Essos, as if he can’t quite bear to shed the vestiges of the North. When he finally pulls the gold linen shirt he wears over his head, his chest is broad and strong, but she likes the look of his arms (that have carried her and killed for her) the most. He sheds his trousers and smallclothes as well, looking distinctly more uncomfortable about that. His thighs and calves curve with muscles, and she’s suddenly nervous about the power of his body. She also can’t help staring at his cock, it’s the first one she’s seen up close.

He settles beside her, stretching out on his side, and gently cups her cheek, stroking with his thumb. She leans into his touch, suddenly finding it difficult to look into his eyes, even though she has thought about this for weeks.

“You haven’t had a man before,” Jorah says, and she shakes her head, and presses a kiss to his palm.

“There was a boy from the household next door, when we lived in Volantis. We only kissed a few times. Viserys caught us - he called me a whore and beat me for it. I didn’t - I didn’t dare, after that.” She swallows, not wanting to bring such an awful memory to the surface.

Her knight nods, taking in what she told him, and leans down to kiss her again. Now he touches her as she wished, gently moving her hand away from her breast to replace it with his own, making her arch into his palm. Her skin feels chilled in the open air, and Jorah her sole source of heat. He dips his head, his mouth closing over her nipple, making her sigh. He teases her with his teeth, his hand stroking over the curve of her other breast, as if to keep it warm. She clutches his head to her, feeling the ache between her thighs bloom and deepen. He releases her to kiss her lips and she immediately wants the pressure and heat of his mouth on her skin again, but settles for his warm, intimate touch gliding over her belly and hips.

His touch is confident (she never asked how many women he had, before and after his lady Lynesse), and that both fuels and settles her nerves. Every fretful thought that flits into her mind – pain, ignorance, foolishness – is calmed by the way he seeks out what makes her crave his touch even more. She does not resist as he wedges his hand between her thighs and pushes them apart, but something about the gesture makes this all too real. He presses his palm over her mound, stroking the silver curls there gently before he dips his finger into the wetness gathering there. Daenerys gasps softly, realizing that she is trembling. She knows where this is going, she _knows_ …but Jorah lifts his hand away, and rests it just below her navel.

“We can stop. If it’s too much,” he says, and her heart flutters.

“Truly?” she says, hating how small her voice sounds.

“I will not die from not having you, Daenerys. I will not like it, but there are worse fates.” She eyes him skeptically and realizes that he looks entirely sincere. She thinks about how she has pondered this for days, desire simmering under her skin. How he complains about practicing Valyrian and does it anyway because it pleases her. How he held her when she panicked about running away and had nightmares about her brother finding her, cycling through both over and over for a fortnight. Jorah can be a beast; she has cleaned other men’s blood from his face and hands, but he chooses not to be so with her.

“I am only a little nervous,” Daenerys finally says, and Jorah nods, makes his kisses gentler and sweeter until she smiles again.

“You’ll tell me if, and when, you are ready,” Jorah says, and she agrees, distracting herself from her nerves by focusing on him. She has been so close to him for so long, yet his actual body still holds mysteries for her. Daenerys traces his scars with her fingers, rubs her cheek against his face and neck, nips at his jaw. She feels like she’s playing when she nudges him down on his back and kisses her way across his chest. Her hair tumbles over her shoulder and she gets the idea to use it as a tease, brushing it feather-light over his stomach and his thickening cock. She decides to indulge her curiosity and touches him, swiping up his length with one finger. Jorah makes a choked sound and she gives him what she thinks is a coy look.

 _No point in being modest now_ , Daenerys supposes.

“Do you like this?” She asks as she traces along his length, stroking slowly and carefully, watching him shiver. “The handmaid Illyrio gave me was quite wicked. She showed me a place where we could hide and watch the guards bathe.” She bites her lip, meeting his gaze. “And sometimes, they were doing other things, too.” She wraps her hand around him; he feels soft and hot, hardening beneath her palm. Her heart thumps in her chest, a rush of power flooding her body. Her knight can expertly wield his strength, and yet he’s almost frozen at her mere touch.

“Daenerys,” Jorah says urgently, and gathers her in his arms again, devouring her mouth in a kiss that makes her toes curl. She rocks into his thigh instinctively, moaning softly, and loses herself for a while in his kisses and the foreign feeling of his skin and the soft hair scattered across it against the length of her body. When it doesn’t feel like enough, she wriggles onto her back and whispers a soft little _now_ , parting her thighs for him this time. His caresses glide over her nether lips with ease, and he whispers that she feels like silk, as he reaches a place only she has ever touched. After a few moments tracing the contours of every petal, Jorah starts drawing small circles with his thumb over a place that makes her shiver and ache, sending little sparks of pleasure up her spine. Her breath comes faster, the loudest sound in the otherwise quiet night. He gently presses a finger inside her, and she rolls her hips, trying to meet his touch.

“That's right. Follow what feels good,” Jorah encourages her, and she has the revelation that this is not about her yielding, but about mutual pursuit. Daenerys falls into rhythm with him, matching his gentle strokes with a rise and fall of her hips. She thinks of dancers she had seen as a child, their belts dripping in bells that chimed as they flicked their hips in the marketplace. A soft moan slips past her lips, and she gazes at Jorah through heavy-lidded eyes.

“But will you not –“ she doesn't know how to say it properly, but rakes her hand down his chest and belly, just barely skimming the head of his cock.

“Patience,” he says, and kisses her lips, her neck, and she tugs at his hair to draw his mouth back to her breast. He lays a path of damp, open-mouthed kisses along the tops of each soft swell before he closes his lips over one tight, hardened bud. The scent of his sweat and her arousal mingle, as the sweet pleasure he is bringing her starts to change, to deepen and grow stronger.

“Oh,” she breathes, her nipple aching in his mouth, his fingers all engaged in stroking her now as she rocks against his hand. Suddenly Daenerys thinks she knows why her brother locked her away, kept her from as much company as he could. She would have done anything, gone anywhere to feel like this. The cascade of sensation seems to go on forever and yet not long enough, making her whole body go taut and tense for a brief, heavenly instant. When she falls apart, she writhes against Jorah’s touch and when it's suddenly too much, she snaps her thighs together, almost trapping his hand.

Daenerys opens her eyes, unsure when she had squeezed them shut. As her attention focuses again, she watches Jorah, fascinated when he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking the taste of her from them, and kneels between her legs. She sees and feels his cock slide, hot and firm, over her sex, through the wetness he drew from her, before he positions himself and she can feel the blunt head at her entrance.

 _Which of us is impatient now?_ she thinks, though in truth, she’d prefer to get it over with too. She nods when he meets her eye, and takes a deep breath.

She thinks Jorah tries to be careful as he slips inside her, and in truth it doesn't really hurt the way she feared, though it certainly feels odd, the thickness filling her creating a strange feeling of pressure that she is not sure she likes. When he's finally well seated in her Jorah groans, his eyes closed tightly, his forehead more rumpled than usual. Once he’s collected himself, he slides one arm beneath her shoulders, almost cradling her, before he pulls away and pushes inside her again, holding himself up on one arm to keep from crushing her. He almost rolls his hips like a wave, each drive forward punctuated with tender kisses to her lips, her brow, her eyelids.

“Let go, sweet girl. The worst is over,” he murmurs, low and soothing against her ear, as his hips slide over hers.

“I’ll be the judge of that, ser,” Daenerys mutters, but stops digging her fingernails into his shoulders. Her hands drift over Jorah’s sides and back, mapping him out, and she tips her head up to meet his mouth. She starts to feel daring again, and reaches down to squeeze his seat, feeling the muscles work as he presses inside her. He grunts in reply, and she can't help laughing softly. She hums when he presses his lips to her hair. He lifts her leg over his hip to change the angle where his cock strokes her, and when she notices that feels more comfortable, she carefully lifts her other leg, resting her heels at the curve of his lower back. Rising to meet his even, steady strokes starts to feel natural, like everything else she has done at his side. _Dancing again_ , she thinks, _easy enough_. But dancing is stable, orderly and choreographed, and as she gazes up into Jorah's eyes, as she sees just how openly awed he is in having her, a sense of urgency, a need she can't identify yet starts to build.

“Closer,” she pleads, wrapping her arm around Jorah's neck to pull him down to her. Being pinned by his weight isn't completely comfortable, but Daenerys desperately needs him tightly pressed against her, because being in his arms means she is perfectly safe. Despite being literally filled with him, she only wants more, and bites his shoulder just to keep the taste of him in her mouth. Neither fear nor pain are what threaten to bring tears to her eyes as she hides her face against his neck and wraps her arms around his broad torso, for once not ignoring her body, but letting herself have exactly what she wants, thrusting up against him with unashamed eagerness. She realizes that the burning from her dreams isn't from fire, as an aching heat floods her from her core to her skin. Jorah quickens the pace of their joining, and the wet sounds of their flesh meeting mix with little cries that she muffles against his skin. The peak she seeks finally finds her, if not quite as intensely as the first time, but still she is afraid to even breathe and disrupt the pleasure arcing through her, until she gasps for air and her whole body shudders. Her sex throbs around him, making her almost sob, until her legs fall to the mattress again.

Jorah gives her a chance to catch her breath, hunching over a little to kiss her tenderly. Daenerys feels strange, almost dizzy like she’s had too much wine, and yet she is keenly aware of his every movement, every miniscule motion of his tongue against hers. Slowly, the rocking of his hips starts again, at first gentle, but then harder thrusts that make her reach above her head to brace herself against the wall, and thrill her because Jorah never loses control. He clenches his jaw, lets out what sounds like a growl, then he freezes, uttering a soft curse. She only realizes that he finished when he nearly collapses on top of her, and she runs her fingers through the damp curls at the back of his neck while she kisses a spot next to his ear, cradling him between her thighs. 

"My dearest," Daenerys whispers, even though it is a population of one, the only person in the whole vast world that matters to her. She will never let him go. Jorah softens and carefully pulls out of her before kissing her once more, then slips out of their bed and picks up a cloth near the basin.

Gingerly, she sits up, leaning back on her elbows. Jorah cleans her carefully with the cloth, wiping away his seed. She wrinkles her nose, though she is relieved to see the wetness on her thighs isn’t a dark smear of blood, and smiles a little when he can't resist kissing her knee.

“I shouldn’t have done that. If we're going to - we have to be careful,” Jorah says, looking sheepish, but Daenerys shrugs.

“There are no children in Asshai, Jorah. Nothing grows here.” She reaches for his hand, amused that this, of all things, makes him fussy and worried. “I shall find some moon tea tomorrow, if it will set you at ease. Now put that aside and come back to bed, ser.”

When Daenerys can finally nestle beneath his chin and breathe in the musky leather and salt scent of him, she feels as wrung out as the rag he’s discarded in the washing. She rests her cheek on his chest, feeling sticky and sore and yet…happy. Happier than she has been since she lived in the house with the red door on the outside. The feeling bubbles up from her chest, into her head and her clinging hands. She wants to run into the streets and tell everyone what she’s discovered; she wants Jorah to tell her all the ways he knows that she can take pleasure from his body.

She feels his lips at the crown of her head, and peeks up at him, his features softened as their lamps burn low. His gaze is pure affection, and she is not sure that anyone else has ever looked at her so. He lifts her hand to kiss her knuckles and it seems to soothe her joy, makes her feel like it fits inside her chest again.

“My silver queen,” Jorah whispers, and Daenerys feels her stomach explode in butterflies as she realizes that he loves her like the stories said he would. His eyes, his hands, both the things he has done and the things he has not, all of them have screamed his devotion for months, but she could not hear the song until now. Daenerys isn’t sure if she loves him too, but she might, and for the first time in her life it is her choice. She kisses him good night, murmurs sweetly in high Valyrian that he is her bear, and she thinks she is only pretending a little.

One day Jorah will teach her how to ride him, and how the Dothraki fuck, and that he can do far better things with his mouth than read poetry. The red priestess will whisper things to her about the seed of the First Men and the blood of Old Valyria that she does not understand yet. Someday, she may tell him that they should go to another land, where new life does not shrivel and die. But for now Daenerys sleeps, surrounded by strong arms that will keep the terrors and demons of both her dreams and Asshai's darkest passages at bay.

**Author's Note:**

> "Silver Queen" is in fact a variety of corn, but Jorah doesn't know that and I'm certainly not gonna break it to him. Thanks for reading!


End file.
